


Rain

by Celticas



Series: Debts are Paid in Blood [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Based on a Tumblr Post, First Meeting, Gen, I have no idea where this is going, Tired Character, hurt character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-10-30 13:31:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17829494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticas/pseuds/Celticas
Summary: Clint Barton had been running for so long he didn't know what it felt like to stand still any more.Phil's life was his job. He didn't believe in a Work-Life balance he believed in Life=Work and had the exhaustion to prove it.Will they be able to help each other or just end up dragging the other further into the hole with them.





	1. Pain

**Author's Note:**

> I have so idea where this is going. So not sure when I will be updating it. You have been warned.  
> [This is the post it was based on.](http://kazechama.tumblr.com/post/181197610793/the-hero-shows-up-at-the-villains-doorstep-one)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [pan2fel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pan2fel) for pointing out the 7u's that were randomly spread though this chapter. I am going to blame my new kitten that is inordinately interested in my keyboard. Anyway, they should all be gone and a few other spelling mistakes corrected now.

He stood shivering in the warm rain. He hadn’t been able to feel his toes for hours and his fingers were tingling in a way that scared him. Scared him in a way that he hadn’t been scared in more than a decade. Not since the night, not dissimilar to this moonless rain-soaked night, when his mentor and his brother turn on him for the final time.

He stood shivering in the warm rain. Looking out at the deserted street below him. One step and the pain and fear would be gone. One step and the pain would just get worse.

He stood shivering in the warm rain. He had been running for so long that he didn’t know what standing still felt like anymore. He had nowhere left to run.

He took one step shivering in the warm rain.

His soaked combat boot skidded against the wet gravel that coated the roof top. He caught his balance against a heating vent. His body wanted to heave in deep breaths, but the blade fragment lodged under his ribs stopped it. First one shoulder, then his back connected with the rusted metal of the vent. Unable to fight gravity any more, he slid to the ground.

His mind muddled from blood loss and exhaustion he tried to think through his options. There must be something, somewhere, someone he could turn to.

From deep in his mind, the memory of a different roof top swam into his mind’s eye. Sun had beaten down that day, bouncing off the red-orange sandstone. In the heat haze he had finally seen the man who had been chasing him for months. Across the square the two men had locked eyes of the first time, a body and a thousand different experiences separated them. Even with his remarkable sight, all he had been able to make out was a dark suit and sunglasses.

He had smirked across the distance, even knowing that the other man couldn’t see him, and then ran. Across burning rooves and through shadow cool alleys.

He had hunted the suit, stalked the one who had been stalking him. For six months in between jobs he had followed the man around the world. Had watched as he broke up a human trafficking ring in the Mongolian Steppe, he had laughed when the suit went undercover in a nudist colony in rural Pennsylvania. He had cried at the other man’s mother’s funeral.

He sat shivering in the warm rain. The only thing on his mind, the sad eyes of the man who had pursued him into a corner. The Widow wouldn’t let him near her at the moment, not with the ghost on his trail. He had no other friends and the only family he had was as likely to shoot him as help him.

On the second try, he was able to push himself up from the roof. A large slash of blood, black in the low light, the only sign he had been there.

He stumbled across the roof and somehow was able to find the energy to launch himself on to the next one. With momentum behind him, he was able to stumble across three more rooves. He had lost track of where in the city he was. Keep moving his mind commanded his body. Where it thought it was going he didn’t know, but he had given up control to his sub-conscious hours ago.

Awareness returned when he finally stopped moving. Without the sun or stars he couldn’t be  positive about what time it was, but his internal clock told him it was the early hours of the morning. The roof he was standing on was in lower Manhattan. He could see through Battery Park to the Staten Island Ferry Terminal on the tip of the island. The area his body had brought him too was so expensive he shouldn’t even be breathing in its direction, let alone standing in its heart.

Under the shock and blood loss that had turned his mind to syrup, he slowly recognised where he was. He had never stood in this exact spot before, but he had looked at it from one of the buildings across the road. Three floors, almost exactly below where he stood, the hunter probably slept peacefully.

He stood shivering in the warm rain. Letting the water wash away the blood that wouldn’t stop flowing from the stab wounds. Three steps brought him to the edge of the roof, the fire escape below him. He tripped down the stairs. His water and blood soaks combat boots clattered against the metal, unable to move soundlessly.

Three flights down his body finally gave out, collapsing outside of the bedroom window of the man he had been running from for so long. The wet leather of his shooting glove slapped dully against the glass. His head thunked against the exposed brick of the wall. He didn’t have the energy to move, didn’t have the energy to knock and ask for help. In the depths of his soul he knew he would die here, exposed for the world to see. The man on the other side of the glass getting his wish.

= + =

Phil lent against the dark wood of his apartment door, juggling files and briefcase to draw his keys from his pockets. The door opened silently under the slight pressure from his shoulder. For six months he had been working over time on tracking Hawkeye. The man was a ghost. He would appear somewhere, do a job, and then disappear again. The closest he had gotten was a coincidence. It had been midday in Marrakesh and all he had been able to do was watch as the assassin had just taken out the wife of the European Bank’s Chairman, he was on the wrong roof. Across the square that was erupting in screams and sirens, the other man had tipped the end of his weapon in a mocking salute and vanished.

Between the hunt for the archer and his normal case load, Senior Agent Phillip Coulson hadn’t left work before 2 am in months. He hadn’t talked to his mother for two months when she died suddenly of a heart attack. Her funeral was the first time he had seen his father or siblings this year.

In the rain dampened light that came through his tall windows he was able to navigate the sparse apartment without turning on one of the harsh overheard lights. He dragged his exhausted body into the shower and stood under the scalding water without making a move for his soap or shampoo.

Eventually the water ran cold and he turned off the flow without having managed anything other than warming his fatigued muscles. Wrapping a towel around his hips and collapsing on top of the neatly made bed was all he could manage before sleep took him.

Only half an hour later he shot up in bed. His heart beating wildly from a nightmare that slipped through his fingers even as he tried to grasp it. There had been the echo of a gunshot and a woman screaming but everything else was washed away with wakefulness.

Getting out of bed, he pulled a pair of sweatpants over his air-dried skin and padded silently into the main room. From long experience he knew sleep would come again tonight. Instead he settled on his pillow soft couch with a warm mug of chamomile tea and his over-full DVR. Another mindless night of trashy reality tv.

Two episodes in to a Super Nanny marathon from the week before, a metallic clink broke the exhausted pall that had settled over the apartment. He turned the sound even further down on the tv and strained to hear over the tinkling of rain drops against the glass. The sound came again, louder this time. Somebody was coming down the fire escape, with little care for their safety. He could hear their progress, their stumbling steps getting louder.

They stopped outside his window.

He muted the tv. The creak of the metal told him they had sat, or collapsed, outside his bedroom. Silently he drew the handgun from the hidden draw in the coffee table. Using the early morning shadows, he slipped across the room. With his back against the wall next to his open bedroom door, he carefully swept the other room with his eyes. Who ever it was, was still outside. The slap of leather against glass sounded from the farthest window. In the low light he could see the slumped form of a body leaning against the glass. He couldn’t tell if they were moving.

From his sheltered vantage point, he waited. For long minutes there was no movement outside. Eventually, he had to move. To reach the window he had to step through the light cast by the building next door, his skin tingled to be so exposed with an unknown threat so close, even in his own home, but the body didn’t respond. He hoped whoever they were hadn’t died out there, the paperwork would just be too much on top of everything else he was dealing with at the moment.

When he got to the window he could see the man outside was barely breathing, air moving in and out of his body in short, shallow rasps. Phil secured his handgun in the back of his pant and unlocked the window.

Without the support the of glass, the body tumbled into the room. A wet stain spreading quickly across his light carpet. It wasn’t just water staining his carpet. The liquid was pink with blood. With careful hands, Phil turned the man over, and it was a man maybe as tall as him but much wider. He was wearing a close fitting long sleeved tee shirt that was in shreds. The thick canvas tactical pants he was wearing were in slightly better condition, only a single long slice along the right thigh. It was no wonder his gait had been so awkward down the slick fire escape.

Carefully, Phil felt down each of the man’s limbs, looking for breaks. His arms and legs were intact but three of his fingers and one hand and two on the others were broken. They needed to be set but the deep cuts were more urgent. Luckily the ribs weren’t broken.

Phil wrapped his hands on either side of the largest tear in the shirt and pulled, the damaged fabric easily giving way to bear an abused abdomen. Shallow and deep cuts spread from one side of the man’s ribs to the other, where the skin was in tact, deep bruising mottled it fresh reds and older blues and purples. If there were older bruises, they were invisible under the newer damage.

He was loath to leave the unconscious man alone, but his first aid kit was under the bathroom sink and no few of those cuts were going to need sutures and even more butterfly stitches. On his way to the bathroom he turned on the bedroom lights, he would need to see what he was doing. It was quick work to pull the large kit out, grab a stack of clean towels and fill a bucket with hot water. The balanced the stack of supplies carefully and was back by the stranger’s side in minutes.

With the lights on Phil could get a better look and something in the back of Phil’s mind told him he should recognise the other man. Blonde hair darkened by the rain, lay flat and limp against his head. The pain from his injuries put lines that shouldn’t be there on a young face.

Working from the top down, Phil carefully sponged blood and dirt away from skin. Each time he came to a cut he palpated around it to make sure nothing was inside, cleaned it with some peroxide and either stitched it closed or bandaged it, depending on it’s depth and severity. It was slow going but straight forward until he got to a large stab wound just below the ribs.

Something was still inside.

He knew there were tweezers somewhere in the large medical bag, the trick was finding them. At some point they had slipped out of the little loop of elastic that normally held them. It took longer than he would have liked to find them tucked up tightly behind a triangle bandage.

A splash of alcohol sterilized them and the he found himself wrist deep in a stranger’s body. The little metal instrument quickly became slippery with blood. Eventually, he found a small fragment of metal that had embedded in the bottom rib.

With it removed, he was able to quickly sew the cut up and continue down the abdomen of the man who hadn’t even flinched at the burn of the peroxide in a hundred places, at the pressure of someone poking around inside him.

With his chest washed down and stitched back together, Phil contemplated the pants. He could cut them off, but that felt a little forward with someone whose name he didn’t even know. In the end he decided if it was him in this situation he wouldn’t care if someone copped -Scan eyeful if they were trying to keep him alive. The cut in the canvas was wide enough that he was able to investigate the wound without completely stripping the guy.

It was more than just a cut. There was a deep, wide wound that reach almost from his knee to his groin. There were burns around and _in_ the cut.

Phil bit his lip to stop himself from gagging. This wasn’t some bar fight gone wrong, it was torture. If he had to guess, the burns were from a car battery. He carefully sutured those parts of the cut he could and smoothed cooling gel across the burns. He covered the whole thing in a burn dressing.

With the cuts and burns seen to, he moved on to the fingers. A quick tug straightened each of them and a packet of tongue depressors and strapping tape stood in for splints.

With everything he could do done, Phil slumped back against the wall under the still open window. He hadn’t noticed the rain sporting his back as he worked but as he stopped moving, the nervous sweat and rain was chilling. He didn’t know how long he just sat there, head hanging between his knees and blood drying under his finger nails. He had moved past exhaustion into a space where his mind was sitting somewhere just outside and above of his body. His though process had slowed from its normally lightening fast speed but had turned to crystal. The next immediate step and all the ones that would need to follow down a hundred different branches depending on who this man was, had laid themselves in front of him. It was just a matter of connecting his mind to his body again and getting on with it.

As the sun was rising, Phil summoned the last of his energy and bundled the still unconscious man into his bed. He didn’t have it in him to dress or even get him under the covers so instead Phil pulled the red, white and blue quilt his mother had made him for Christmas a decade ago, and that he still used every winter, off the foot of the bed and over the stranger. From there, Phil had just enough left to drag his weary body back out into the couch and collapse into exhausted slumber.


	2. Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still have no idea where this is going. Just writing and seeing where the words take me.

The first sound of distress brought Phil rocketing back to consciousness. He got tangled in the blanket he had pulled off the back of the couch in his sleep. He ended up flailing embarrassingly in the folds of fabric before ending up face down on the carpet.

“Smooth Coulson.” He grumbled to himself as he detangled his legs. Luckily for them, no one from SHIELD had been around to see it or ‘hiding the body’ would have moved to the top of his to do list. The cry of pain came again, just as Phil made it off the floor. The bright sunlight that was streaming through the windows told him it was well past when he should have been at work, but he had other things to worry about.

He pushed through into his occupied bedroom to see the other man thrashing on the bed. At some point in the night he had thrown off the quilt, the hot flushed appearance of the skin on his bare chest and arms suggested a fever. The violent movement from the nightmare that held a tight grip on the injured man’s mind, had ripped a few of the stitches and several wounds were sluggishly leaking blood. Pink stains were growing on the sheets where the blood was mixing with sweat and dripping onto the fabric.

Phil hesitated in the doorway. He didn’t know who this guy was, but he did know he was dangerous. Nobody who didn’t have a past could have survived the pain that had been inflicted. The interesting callouses also spoke on an interesting life. From intimate experience, waking someone like that from a nightmare was risky, they had a high likely hood of lashing out. But he couldn’t leave him as he was, at the very least he was going to pop more of Phil’s hard work and further stain his sheet.

“Wake Up.” He spoke loudly, clearly and with a good heaping of command in his voice, while keeping it as assuring and non-threatening as could. “You’re safe. It’s just a nightmare. Wake Up.” Each time he repeated himself, the man’s movements slowed down, eventually subsiding completely. Phil didn’t know how many times he had repeated himself, when brilliant blue eyes blinked open. They were heavy with confusion, fear and pain.

= + =

Clint was huddled in a dark room. He couldn’t see beyond his fingertips, or maybe not even that far, he wasn’t sure. But he _knew_ there was someone in here with him. A presence loomed in his peripheral vision or the edge of his hearing. He didn’t know who they were, but he knew they were there.

Hunching further into his cold corner, he drew his knees up to his chest protectively. He wanted to hide his face but couldn’t risk giving up even the concept of sight.

A hard blow hit his lower back, squarely in one kidney. He could have sworn there had been a wall there, protecting his blind spot, but it was just a dark void that continued forever. The force of the impact propelled him onto his knees. He used the momentum to spin around, trying to see who or what had hit him.

Another blow caught his left year, making his head ring.

He spun again but nothing was there.

“Stop.” He tried to croak out. A whimper emerged instead.

The hits were coming hard and fast now. No matter how or where he moved he couldn’t escape them. The bruises rose quickly, turning his arms and chest and legs black. The spots of colour began to burn, fire licking under his skin.

He couldn’t hear or see the strikes coming before they hit. The torment went on forever, it went on for a second. All he could do was huddle down and endure. Arms wrapped around his head to protect himself in the only way he could.

 _“Wake up.”_ A voice whispered. He could barely hear it over the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

 _“You’re safe.”_ It continued. His attackers laughed. He wasn’t safe. He had never been safe and never would be. His life was pain. His life was fear. His life was crying in the dark because the people who he should have been able to count on had betrayed him again.

 _“It’s just a nightmare.”_ That didn’t make sense, his nightmares were always eye seeringly bright. The dark was his waking reality.

 _“Wake up.”_ The voice began repeating its mantra. Each time a little louder, a little closer. Each time the hits slowed, the force behind them lessened.

The darkness gave way to a sudden invasion of light. Warm cream walls and dark wood detailing bounced mid-morning light around an open bedroom.

A large presence shifted in the corner of his eye. Before conscious thought could take hold, he was already throwing his body of the soft bed he had been laying on. Putting as much distance between himself and the unknown. A hand scrabble across his thigh looking for a blade that wasn’t there, that hadn’t been there for far too long.

Between one breath and the next he was back wedged in a corner, trying to protect himself from an unknown enemy. This time he could at least see the threat approaching.

The figure in the doorway didn’t flinch at his sudden movement. It stood quietly and as still as possible under the dark lintel.

They stared at each other across the bright expanse. Something in the back of Clint’s mind told him he had been here before, but not. Somewhere different but similar.

As his breath evened out from the startling return to reality and he blinked the exhaustion and pain out of his eyes, he could finally take in the details of the person across from him.

They were a man, either 20 years his senior or 10 and a recent span of sleepless nights and stress. He had short ruffled light brown hair that was receding, and kind blue eyes. His chest was bear showing a smattering of hairs and a larger helping of scars. Dark blue sweat pants hung low on narrow hips and toes peeked out from under the hems that were dragging on the ground.

He stood under the scrutiny without squirming, not many people were able to do that when it was Hawkeye looking with his kaleidoscope eyes.

“You’re bleeding on my carpet.” The man spoke, his voice strong but quiet. He spoke as if Clint was an injured animal that he didn’t want to startle, which maybe closer to the truth than Clint would like to admit.

He risked a glance down and there were a few spots of bright red below where he was crouched. He looked back up and raised an eyebrow in challenge. A silence _‘And? So?’._

= + =

Phil saw the movement in the other man’s eyes a fraction of a second before he was flinging himself off the bed and into the corner of the room furthest from where Phil was standing. The sudden, energetic movement popped more of the stitches with a sick rip as flesh gave way to the thin surgical thread. It also pulled the top layer of blankets and sheets of the bed and into a pile on the floor.

The man’s breath rushed into and out of his mouth too fast. His chest not expanding fully before it was contracting again. The man was going to start hyperventilating if he didn’t get himself under control. He could feel the other man assessing him, his fever bright eyes darting from the top of his head down the his slightly chilled bare toes. He stood calmly under the examination, waiting for the other man to come to some sort of decision. The opportunity to take a breath and start figuring out the situation he had found himself in, seemed to be reassuring. His breath going back to an almost normal pattern, Phil figured the slight hitch to it was either nerves or pain and could understand either.

Phil took the opportunity to do his own assessment. Five of the cuts had popped at least one stitch and were bleeding openly. Another three were stretched and only holding on by sheer stubbornness.

“You’re bleeding on my carpet.” The words slipped out, sad that the man was hurting again.

The blue eyes flicked down to the cream carpet that Phil had never particularly cared for and then back up again. A new fire in his eyes. A defiance that Phil found heartening, if he could get attitude about that, he would be ok, eventually.

At the single raised eyebrow Phil almost felt a smile crack through his agent mask.

“I just thought you might want to do something about the bleeding, not my carpet.” Phil gestured at the first aid kit he had left out the night before.

After watching the man’s eyes move to the bright red bag, Phil retreated. He was as ok as Phil could hope and didn’t need him helping unless asked. Back in the main room, he poured a cup of coffee from the coffee machine that had automatically brewed a pot earlier in the morning and then dug his phone from between the couch cushions where it had slipped during his nap.

The little device instantly lit up with fourteen missed calls and another two-dozen unread messaged when he tapped the home button. His friends were wondering, and then worried, why he didn’t turn up to work that morning. Looking at the last message from Jasper, he found he had just over five minutes left before a Strike team would break down his door unless he contacted them with the correct codes. Which his co-op would not appreciate.

Grumbling to himself, he tapped in the secure check in line from memory and listened as it tried to sell him a knock off shake-weight. He selected 1 for ‘North American Purchases’ and waited through the options. 3 informed him that he had selected to pay by credit card and would be put through to an operator. The line rang exactly twice before it was answered.

“Trim Tremor, you have selected credit card payment. Name please.” The voice was bored.

 “Clark Rogers.” Phil answered with one of his covers that stated it was a general status check and there was nothing wrong.

“Card number.”  
He could hear the faint click of a keyboard in the background.

“4341-5590-1987-0254” He rattled off the numbers, boredom leaking into his own voice. Just another late night infomercial enthusiast. Nothing to see here.

“Confirmed. Your order will be processed.” The click of the line dying echoed in Phil’s ear. The call centre agents had never been particularly verbose but that was bad even for them.

Phil threw the phone onto his paper strewn dining table. Grabbing an unopened bottle of water he went to check on his house guest. Only to find the bedroom empty. A quick check of the windows showed that they were still securely locked, and he hadn’t seen the man come into the main room. Where the hell had he gone?


	3. Lost

Involuntarily, Clint felt his eyes moving to the bright red bag on the other side of the room. He knew better. Never take your eyes off the danger. Even if all of his senses were telling him there wasn’t any. There clearly was. In the scant seconds he had looked away, the doorway had emptied. The sounds of someone puttering around the other room filtering in past the pain that was starting to re-assert itself. He could feel the dripping of liquid down his side. The uncomfortable tightness of a thick layer of dried blood.

His eyes slid between the red bag and the half-opened door twice. The older man’s voice came from the other room. He was on the phone. The one-sided conversation too bland and boring for known a stranger was in the apartment to be anything other than a coded message. Gingerly levering himself off the floor he scuttled across the room, snagged the handle of the first aid kit with his unbroken fingers and was back across the room and in the bathroom with the door locked and the laundry hamper, that was heavier than it looked, wedged up against the door, all without making a sound.

A quick assessment of the pristine white tiles and warm sky blue paint showed no way out. The sturdy wooden door at his back was the only access or egress point. He didn’t know how he felt about that.

The small space was re-assuring, it reminded him of some of the places he had lived growing up. The safety of the closet where his dad never thought to look for him in his drunken rages. Or the small van he and Barney shared with two others when they first joined Carson’s.

The man on the other side of the wood, was the unknown. The factor that really determined how safe Clint was and he didn’t know whether he could trust him. For christ’s sake, he didn’t even know who he was.

Something turned over in the back of his brain. That wasn’t right. He did know. He had seen that jaw line before. He knew the blue eyes that had looked at him with concern but no recognition.

_He knew those eyes._

They had been hidden from him the first time, dark aviators covering an assessing look from across a rioting city square. The intense blue that had sparked with rage as their owner ruthlessly took down evil men. The unexpectedly shy lurking in their depths, as a social climber twenty years their junior had assessed they body they were attached to.  Eyes that had welled with tears over their mother’s slowly filling grave.

Those eyes belonged to the agent that had caused all of this! How the fuck had he ended up here? Where was here?

If he had been caught, he would be in a sterile hospital room chained to a bed railing, or in a jail cell. Not some sparklingly clean upmarket apartment.

An image of a rain-soaked metal staircase floated into his mind.

What did a fire escape have to do with anything?

Oh shit. Clint abruptly met the floor.

He had brought himself here. The stop motion movie of last night flicked through his brain. Escaping the zip ties that had been several tensile strengths too weak to keep him contained. Blood. Blood soaking him, and the floor, and the men how had tried to stop him. Then a warm rain. He remembered looking out over a quiet street and stepping back. Then the dark windows of a sleep quiet apartment.

He struggled to stop the panic attack before it started. He counted the red items in the room, all of two of them. Then the blue, there were more of these. Flattening his injured hands was painful, but the cool, clean tiles allowed him to ground himself.

The attack passed slowly.

The tiles under his hands and ass had warmed, an uncomfortable counter point to the cold seat that had broken out across his skin. He couldn’t stop the shivers that began running down his back.

With his breathing once again under control, he reached a shaking hand out for the first aid kit that he had cropped.

It was one of the best stocked home med-kits he had ever seen. There were layers of _stuff_. Every type of bandage you could hope for. Enough gauze for a battalion serving in the bloodiest days of Fallujah. Suture, and butterfly bandages, and a fucking industrial sized box of Captain America band-aides. He hadn’t even known you could buy those for adults.

Under a pack of triangle bandages he found the butterfly bandages, trying to get them out without the use of most of his fingers. He got what he wanted but scattered half of the contents across the floor. Clint didn’t really care. Getting the sides of the wounds together and getting the bandages on was not easy. He grunted with pain each time he bumped a finger against himself and ended up staining the tape around his fingers dark red with blood.

A painful 15 minutes later, all of the popped stitches had been replaced with butterfly bandages. Spilling the bandages everywhere had unearthed a half-used package of high-tech post-op dressings that was antibiotic and could apply pressure. Some of those would do nicely.

Between the almost panic attack and the painful process of patching himself up, Clint had been in the bathroom for a while. His internal clock had been screwed by the time being held by those sons of bitches and blood loss and the lack of natural light in the room. He thought it had been about three quarters of an hour, but it could be anything from thirty minutes to over and hour.

Narrowly avoiding stepping on his fingers when he stood up, Clint tripped his way across the small room to the basin.

He stared at the used cup that held a single toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste for a long moment. “Fuck it.” He mumbled before tipping to contents out and filling it almost to the brim. He drained it and filled it and drained it again, trying to replace some of the fluids he had lost.

Cradling a third full cup of water in his mangled hands, he took a seat on the closed toilet. What the fuck was he going to do now? He wasn’t in any condition to look after himself, and there was no way in hell he was going to be able to get past Agent Suit. The only thing he had going for him was that he hadn’t been identified.

= + =

On a first sweep, the room was the same as before he had left with the notable exception of the missing injured. Phil surveyed the room again, turning an analytical eye over the space. The first aid kit was also missing from where he had left it tucked against the old armchair that dominated one corner of the room. The bathroom door was also fully closed. It had been open half an inch and now it wasn’t.

Palming the throwing knife from the top draw of the tall dresser, he edged across the room. Phil pressed an ear against the wood. For a second all he could hear was his own heartbeat thundering in his head. Pushing his awareness out, the soft sound of a hitched breath gave away the location of the other man. With his focus narrowed down he was able to hear the uneven rhythm of someone struggling to control their breathing. Panic attack his mind diagnosed.

Non-threat.

He eased away from the door slightly. No longer pressed against it, but close enough to respond if needed. He knew he should be trying to figure out who this guy was and what had happened to him, but some part of him knew digging right now would not end well. After a long half an hour he could hear the sound of the faucet running. There had been no other indicators of distress and if the guy was moving under his own steam that was good.

Phil left his self-assigned post against the wall outside his own bathroom. He may have called in to work for the day, but he did have somethings that couldn’t be put off. He dug a pair of sweatpants and an old tee shirt out of his bottom draw and left them on the end of the bed, easily visible from the bathroom when the other man left the small room.

Food would be good. Even as he thought it his stomach agreed, rumbling loudly in the otherwise quiet rooms. A refill of his coffee mug was first though. He also pulled down an extra mug and the sugar and cream, leaving all of it on the kitchen counter for if the other man wanted something to drink. Next, he pulled open his fridge. It was only as he was staring at its empty innards that the fact he hadn’t been home often enough lately to even have left overs registered.

Glancing at the clock he decided ten to twelve was a completely acceptable time to order Chinese from down the block. The restaurant was happy to hear from him. He ordered from them on a semi-regular basis and they were used to his odd patterns of ordering regularly and then disappearing for weeks on end. Even so, with the hunt for Hawkeye it had been months since he had called, and they threw in an extra serving of dumplings to welcome him home.

Just as he was hanging up from an extended discussion about him ordering extra food, ‘had he met someone? Oh, they were so happy! Congratulations, have extra spring rolls to!’ with Chunhua, the stranger edged into the room. Out of his ragged cargo pants and tee shirt and in Phil’s clothes, he looked younger and much more vulnerable.

“There’s coffee if you want.” Phil left the kitchen.

Trying to give the other man some space, he picked up the remote from the couch and flicked the tv to the 24-hour news. With the sound still on low he stood behind the sofa, out of the way but visible, and listened with one ear to the latest catastrophe out of the Middle East and to the slow movements of the man in the kitchen with the other.

With a full mug of milky coffee cradled to his chest, the other man joined him. In uneasy silence they watched the reporter present Stark Industries latest stock price jump.  They had watched a full run and a little more of the current half hour news cycle when the door bell rang. At the sharp sound, the injured man jumped and twisted, one hand dropping to his waist looking for a weapon that wasn’t there.

Phil ignored the move for now. “I hope you like Chinese.” He tossed out as he moved to buzz Tim the delivery guy up.

The other man didn’t answer, just watched over the rim of his mug as Phil pulled his wallet from his briefcase and went to the door to wait.

The exchange of food for money was quick, a practices movement. The only difference from the normal polite ‘how are yous’ was Tim catching sight of the other man dressed in what were obviously Phil’s clothes. Tim’s smile instantly transformed from worn out customer service into a genuine, wide fucking _beaming_ smile. In response, Phil’s face fell from bland friendly beurocrat into murderous glare. Tim wasn’t looking at him though, he was looking over his shoulder. But from how quickly the smile fell, Phil would guess that the other man’s face had done something similar to his own.

With a tight thank you, Phil sent Tim on his way. Locking the door behind him was a more involved process then just turning a key. Serving up the food was a quiet but efficient operation. Phil grabbed two plates and cutlery from the cupboards and let them each serve themselves. Phil was finished first and clearing off a space on the dining table he never used, sat and waited.

Eventually the other man joined him, a full plate in one hand and a refilled mug in the other. Hesitating at the end of the table, he chose the seat furthest from Phil. Once seated, he drew his feet on the chair, his knees against his chest protectively. Making himself as small as possible. Slightly awkward, he had to work around his legs and the splinted fingers to eat, but even so he managed to being solving food into his mouth. The speed with which he ate suggested to Phil that he either had a background in some sort of institute, prison or the army, or knew deprivation.

The army didn’t seem likely, Phil worked with a lot of ex-service people and the way this man held himself didn’t match up.

He slowed down as he reached the end of his plate. Phil caught the side eyed glance at the containers still half full on the kitchen bench, but the man stayed in his seat, eyeing Phil warily.

Phil finished chewing his mouthful and began talking. “You’re welcome to more food.” He purposefully looked at the kitchen and then back at his own plate. “While you are eating, is there anyone I can call for you?” He scooped up another fork of Sichuan beef and continued eating.

They lapsed back into silence. Phil slowly eating, and the other man watching him.

= + =

Clint watched Agent Coulson continue to work his way through his plate. He wanted more but didn’t dare risk it. There was more food in the kitchen but it wasn’t for him. It was Agent Coulson’s and he had already had more of it then he should have. It had been a calculated risk. Clint didn’t remember the last time he had eaten and he had lost a lot of blood, he needed the calories.

“You’re welcome to more food.” The agent flicked his eyes at the containers that held Clint’s peripheral attention. “While you are eating, is there anyone I can call for you?” He asked, his voice soft and non-threatening.

Clint didn’t buy it.

Anything Clint gave away would be used to trap him later. The sooner he could get out of here and disappear again the better.

Clint ignored the invitation to let down his guard and continued to watch the other man.

“If you’re finished, why don’t you go and lay down again. You need to rest to let your body heal.” Agent Coulson offered as he stood from the table. He picked up his own plate and then Clint’s, stepping well into his personal space to do it.

Clint held himself still, doing his best not to flinch away from the proximity. He gave a curt nod and then almost bolted into the other room, shutting the door behind himself.


	4. Run

Clint stopped in the middle of the bedroom. The soft mattress called a siren song, but he couldn’t afford to succumb. He had exposed himself enough. He had to get out. First, clothes. His own were little more than a pile of blood-soaked rags. The agent had to have something a little more fighting fit than sweats and a sinfully soft tee shirt. Absently stroking the soft fabric, he decided that it might just find it’s way out the door with him.

A comprehensive riddle though the draws turned up more than just clothes. Quickly swapping the sweats for a pair of heavy canvas cargo pants he found in the second draw from the bottom. He then pulled on a thick pair of socks and put a light weight, dove grey jacket on the bed. It would probably be too noisy to wear as he cases the place. The boots he found in the bottom of the cupboard were half a size too big. That was easily fixed with a second pair of socks. He wouldn’t have been able to do anything about too small.

He scored with the socks, the second pair had a roll of notes from Canada, the US, and Mexico. He stuffed it all in a pocket. Knowing there was probably more where that came from, he checked each of the sock balls, the insoles of all of the shoes and found another few bundles of cash. He considered the lining of the expensive suites that were neatly lined up, but while he was okay with stealing, outright property damage was going a bit far. He did raid the first aid kit though. Stuffing a few suture kits, gauze, and bandaged into a backpack he had pilfered from under the bed. Between the mattress and bed frame an alphabet of passports had been stuffed. Not particularly helpful but he took note of the various aliases. There was also a pretty nice set of throwing knives which followed the currency and med supplies into the bag. Two tee shirts and a couple of extra sets of underwear and socks filled the bag.

Clint put the bag, jacket and boots beside the window and carefully set the room to right. Remembering exactly where something had been and being able to put it back there was a useful skill he had picked up years ago. He didn’t need to worry about finger prints. No one had them on file, he avoided glass and metal as a matter of course, and where he couldn’t avoid it he had unconsciously wiped as he worked. Trick and Barney had beaten the need to not leave a trace into him a long time ago. He even rolled up all of the used gauze and bandages in his ruined clothes to take with him. There wasn’t much he could do about the blood in the carpet though.

The sun was still high in the sky when he had finished. It was a toss up which was riskier, staying and possibly having the SHIELD agent who was hunting him come into the room the check how he was and seeing the bag, or going out the window right now in the middle of the fucking afternoon and having someone spot him.

Normally, Clint would have preferred to stay put until dark, but in the heart of the City that Never Sleeps dark wouldn’t provide the cover it normally would. Up onto the roof and across a few buildings he could safely jimmy a lock and disappear into the 8 million and change people that were crammed onto the island.

He shrugged the jacket and backpack on. A touch of hand soap on the window frame had it opening soundlessly. Swinging himself carefully through the window, he reached back in and grabbed the roll of clothing, and then eased the window closed again. He crept up the fire escape, being careful to keep close to the wall where it made less noise and he would be harder to see, both from the street and anyone in the apartments he was climbing past.

The long minutes that it took him to get up the stairs dragged. Each second another hair on the back of his neck stood on end, sure that someone was about to look up and spot him. Once over the lip of the roof, he collapsed against the cement. Heart beat returned to mostly normal and flight or fight response back under control he started moving again.

A short leap from one roof to the next. And then another before he ran out of block. Each time his foot hit the cement it jarred everything. His ribs hated him for moving like the hounds of hell were at his heels. His fingers hated him for gripping the bundle of bloody material as if his life depended on it, which it did. His eyes hated him for being out in the bright midday sun for the first time in way too long. Every second of movement hurt and there was no adrenaline of the hunt to drive it away. The only thing that kept him moving was the need to save his own neck and get revenge on the fuckers who had hurt him _again._

A street ran forty floors below him. For once luck was on his side and the latch on the roof access door was broken, there must be a smoker in the building. The next part was going to be the trickiest. His borrowed clothes would stand out amongst the thousand-dollar suits of the business people, and the bruises purpling his face would draw the eye. Make him memorable.

Best to avoid the people then.

The elevator hatch was locked shut, which only proved a momentary obstacle. The brick that had probably propped open the door before the more lasting latch tamper was sitting just inside. A heavy wack with it and the cheap padlock was in two pieces on the floor. Now to wait.

Clint was used to sitting still for hours and waiting for the fraction of a second when his target was exposed, this was no different. He waited on the edge between dozing and action ready for an hour. Finally, the elevator car rose to the top floor. When it paused to let people on, or off Clint didn’t know or care which, he silently climbed onto the top of the car. Managing to pull the hatch closed behind him just before the metal box began its downward journey.

In the half light of the elevator shaft, he dozed. There was nothing more he could do until the offices he was hiding inside emptied for the day and that wouldn’t be for hours yet.

= + =

Phil covered the leftover food and tucked it away into his fridge, hopefully to be eaten later but more likely to be forgotten about and left to grow a new civilisation. He efficiently washed their plates and put them away. With the kitchen and main room put back to rights, he refilled his coffee mug and settled on the couch.

Absently he watched a house hunters international where the couple was going to lose their house in the next major storm. At the same time, he listened as his guest bustled around the other rooms. Having someone else in his space should have made him uncomfortable, especially because he knew absolutely nothing about the man. Except that he found him attractive. But it was oddly soothing. Having the soft sound of someone moving around the in other room, settling down to rest.

As one episode finished and the next began, that glacier was going to cause landslides within three years, the sounds slowed and then stopped. In another episode he would peek in and make sure the hurt man was resting easily.

Predictably the couple went for the worst of the houses and Phil clicked the television over to an Arabic news channel for background noise. He procrastinated a little by cleaning his mug and putting it away, and cleaning and resetting the coffee machine for the morning. Finally, he either had to go back to watching people make idiotic real-estate decisions or check on his guest.

He kept all of his hinges well-oiled and his bedroom door opened without a sound.

To an empty room.

The bed hadn’t been touched. The bathroom door was standing wide open. The injured man who had passed out from blood loss on his fire escape only 12 hours ago, was gone. Most likely back the way he had come, out the window and either up or down the fire escape. How he had managed it in his state without making a sound was impressive. Phil quickly checked his rooms, more than half of the stashed money was gone, the draws completely gone, but the box taped to the bottom of the bathroom cabinet was still there. His passports that even SHIELD didn’t know about were still there but had been moved. His knives were gone but his gun was still in it’s hidey-hole behind the vintage WWII Captain America recruitment poster.

Phil considered his options, absently staring at Cap’s patriotic face. He could just let the whole thing go, hope that the other man was a good person or he had built up enough good will with the stranger and he wouldn’t come back to use the knives he had stolen. He could, and should, report the while thing to SHIELD. Have a team come in and sweep the place. Fury would want him to move which wasn’t happening.

Neither were particularly good options. As a Senior Agent he had enough people gunning for him that ignoring someone turning up on his metaphorical door step was a good way to get dead. But he hadn’t felt threatened at any point in their interactions.  Not that their interactions had been extensive. At no point had the other man muttered a single word, in his direction or otherwise.

Calling a team in would open him up to all sorts of questions though. Questions he didn’t have a good answer for. Why hadn’t he called security in earlier? Or at all? What was he thinking, feeding the trespasser? Had he really called in sick to work? It was more drama than he wanted to open himself up to, but some of those questions would be asked regardless of what he did now so better to get in front of it.

Phil went for his phone. Another irritatingly convoluted phone call later a team was on its way. With the way his day was going it shouldn’t have been a surprise that Felix Blake was heading up the team that turned up on his doorstep 15 minutes later. Phil scowled at the other man even as he let him in.

“Phil.” Blake greeted.

“Agent Blake.” Phil’s greeting was decidedly cooler. He didn’t like the familiarity that the other agent used just because their families ran in the same circles in Boston.

They stood shoulder to shoulder in silence as the security team swept for bugs and a pair of scientists collected samples and scanned for fingerprints. The science team was done first.

“Sir, we have collected what we could but there isn’t much.” Agent McDonnell approached them tucking a few evidence jars into her kit. “There was blood evidence on the carpet and a few latent prints on the window frame but that’s it. We have your biometrics to rule out but is there anyone else we need to factor into it?”

“The blood was his and there is no one else you need to have exclusion samples for.” Phil assured her. It was a poor inditement of his social life, but also very true. In his peripheral vision he could see Blake poorly concealing a smirk. Even as children Phil had always been the odd one out in their social groups and Blake, the consummate Jock, had never missed an opportunity to subtly rub it in. “Let me know what you find.”

“Of course, sir.” She nodded quickly before collecting her colleague and leaving.

The security team filed out without speaking to them, just giving a head shake when asked if they had found anything.

“Fury wants to see you.” Blake said in leu of a good bye.

Only an hour after having called, Phil was alone in his apartment again. A sick weight had settled itself in his chest from having people in his home. He may have been the one to call them in but his space away from work felt different now. There was nothing as obvious as black finger print dust or crime scene tape to demarcate that they had been there, but he _knew_ , he would always know that a group of people he didn’t know, and trust had gotten a glimpse into his private space.

He was out of sorts enough that he decided to put off going into the office until the next day. Nick could grumpy and whine about it all he liked, Phil was taking the afternoon off.

= + =

It was so bright and early the sun hadn’t even risen when Agent Phil Coulson stepped through the front doors of the New York SHIELD base. Cuffs shot and tie straight he strode purposefully past the few people hanging around the large space. He went directly to the Director’s office. It was still dark and still when Phil let himself in. He sat in one of the visitor chair without turning on a light and settled down to wait.

The sun was just rising through the wall of glass when Fury swept into his office.

“Motherfucker!” His boss swore when he noticed Phil sitting in the dark room.

“You wanted to see me?” Phil asked without getting up.

He was summarily ignored as the Direction turned the lights on and shucked his coat. He continued to be ignored until Nick had powered up his computer and checked his emails.

Phil waited patiently.

“Motherfucker.” The expletive was more of a sigh this time. “Sitrep.”

Unconsciously Phil’s posture straightened, reacting to the command presence. Succinctly he outlined the last 36 hours. Finishing with the report the science division had sent through overnight. “No viable fingerprints. They did get DNA from the carpet, but it doesn’t match anything in anyone’s system.”

Fury glared at him. He wanted more than the physical play-by-play. He wanted to know why his best agent hadn’t called in the visitor the second they fell bleeding into his apartment. Having known Coulson as long as he had, Fury knew he wasn’t going to get anything else.

“Get the fuck back to work.”

And he was dismissed. Phil buttoned his jacket as he stood. “Sir.” And he was going the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a story that started with no plot, it certain didn't seem to grow any.....  
> I'm going to end this one here but I have an idea for a follow up that will probably be about the same length if people are interested.


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